


the electricity between us

by WanderingCreep



Series: put on your soundtrack to disaster [2]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Mob, M/M, Restaurants, Slow Build, Snipers, mob boss!Renee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-10-27 21:43:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10817346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingCreep/pseuds/WanderingCreep
Summary: for some reason, Dean just can't escape this guy...





	1. Chapter 1

the electricity between us

 

Renee is perceptive.

‘Call it woman’s intuition’, she always said, but it was probably because Dean tended to wear his hear on his sleeve that she knew what he was thinking all the time.

That’s probably why she knows that its not just the restaurant they’re in that’s got him glaring holes at anyone who interacts with them.

The employees at the restaurant all know her. She’s a regular, it’s her favorite restaurant, classy, upscale, uptight, all the things that Dean has never been. He’s out of place there, leather jacket and all, sitting across from her at the table, elbows leaned forward on the pristine white tablecloth (and probably leaving smudges of dirt and grime as he does everything in this jacket –even murder) and scowling at everyone. It’s a French restaurant.

Dean doesn’t speak the language, but Renee does, talks to the servers and the chef in perfect Metro and even Acadian French. That’s probably why the employees like her so much; most of them hardly speak English, speaking French amongst themselves and broken English to the customers, but there’s never really any need to, because the rich bastards who eat here all know how to either speak the language or fake their way through the menu pronunciations.

Renee orders for the both of them, handing her menu to the server with a smile, who scurries off barking orders for the others to bring Renee the wine she regulars (a pricy French burgundy brought in from a private vineyard in _Côte de Nuits_ ).

“Now,” says the Donna, switching back to English. “Why don’t you tell me what’s got you so worked up?”

Dean shrugs, continues to glare at the patrons dining at the table to the left of them. “I’m not worked up.”

“Yes, you are,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I know you, Dean. You wear your heart on your sleeve; I can see your blood boiling.”

Dean remains stubbornly silent until the servers return. They pour the wine in to the glasses with practiced ease and grace, though they look visibly startled when Dean growls at them to leave the bottle.

Renee gives a dirty look. “Dean, you’re on the clock.”

“All the more reason to get wasted,” he replies, already downing his glass of Burgundy. Renee sighs and apologizes to the servers in French, and when they leave, no doubt discussing the wild man the Donna had brought with her as they go, Dean tells her, “Helmsley’s trying to start a gang war.”

Renee sips from her wine glass. “And? You and I both know that he’s always been a territorial man; it was only a matter of time. Don’t tell me that’s what’s got you all worked up.”

Dean scowls harder into his glass. “I met his hitman.”

This catches Renee’s attention. She raises an eyebrow. “Did you now? I guess that settles it then; the definitive answer to the myth of the Silver Shadow. Did you kill him?”

Dean grimaces. Of course if he brought up the hitman, he’d have to come clean about his suddenly ruined killstreak.

“No. Fucker almost got hit by a car trying to get away from me,” he says.

“What was he doing there?” Renee says, mostly to herself. She grimaces, makes a face that’s twisted up in disdain. “Don’t tell me we got sold out to the Bluebloods.”

“If I were a gambling man, I’d say so. Our guy gets a bullet in the head from a sniper across the street who turns out to be the prized lapdog of the Bluebloods? I don’t believe in coincidences,” grumbles Dean.

At least the wine’s good. Too complex, and he’d always prefer a shot of whiskey to the sweet, fruity nature of wine, but good enough to satiate his growing frustrations at the moment.

Renee looks thoughtful over the top of her glass. “You’re right,” she muses. “Damn. We should’ve taken care of him the moment he started asking for a pay raise.”

“What do you want to do?” asks Dean, because he really wants to beat someone up right now, preferably to death.

Renee, swirls the wine in her glass, looking contemplative.

She’s wearing full makeup –rose red lipstick, winged eyeliner sharp enough to make the ancient Egyptians jealous- and a dress made of yellow silk and white diamonds. She looks stunning.

None of that is any good at hiding the murderous thoughts turning the gears in her brain from Dean. She’s still a woman of murder, no matter how stunning she looks, not that Dean would ever forget that little detail.

“Helmsley knew I’d send you to take care of that informant,” she murmurs, thinking out loud. “That’s why he sent his sniper and told him not to engage you. He wanted you to pass the message on, get our attention.”

Dean grunts in confirmation. “An invitation to meet him on his doorstep.”

“A very condescending one,” adds Renee pointedly. She didn’t like being spoken down to; she was still a mob boss, even if she wore earrings and high heels instead of a suit and tie. She still commanded respect. “Helmsley’s asking if we’ll be ready when he gives the signal, or if we’re going to back down. I don’t think we need to send an RSVP, he knows damn well what the answer will be.”

For the first time since the run-in with Rollins, Dean smiles. “I’m sure I can make sure he gets that message.”

Renee gives him a knowing smile. “I know, but I don’t want to force his hand just yet. I want to know what he wants first.”

“You said it yourself; Helmsley’s a territorial bastard. Probably just wants the pull you’ve got as a rival organization,” says Dean, reaching over and helping himself to the wine bottle. “Of course, we did off our informant. Probably should’ve asked him before we put a bullet in his head.”

“Whatever he sold us, it probably would’ve been nothing but a lie anyway if we’re right about him being buddies with the Bluebloods,” mumbles Renee pointedly into her glass. “And anyway, there’s no reason why we can’t be cordial about this. So far, Helmsley hasn’t done anything that would actively hurt us; there’s no reason why the Bluebloods and _la reine de la riviere_ can’t work a deal out without killing each other in the streets.”

Dean rolls his eyes and brings his glass to his lips, “Boring.”

“You’re incorrigible,” says Renee. “I’ll have Graves’ finalize negotiations. Until then, if you happen to run into our friend again, you’re under orders not to kill him. Do you understand?”

Dean leans back in his chair and shrugs, the picture of innocence. “Scouts honor, your highness.”

Renee eyes him over the top of her glass, but there’s no heat behind it. “Good. Now that that’s settled,” the servers arrive then, pushing two silver carts with them and another pair bearing pitchers of ice water, “I believe dinner is served.”

 

 

Dean’s already got a bit of a buzz going from the burgundy at dinner with Renee.

That’s not going to stop him from going to the bar on the way home.

Leave it to Renee to pick something good: tonight it’d been _gigot d'Agneau pleureur,_ some kind of lamb dish that Dean would never have thought to eat in a million years. It was delicious, took his mind off of the crushing annoyance of Rollins and his meddling. He let himself be indulged in the meal and the charming company that was his boss ( _the_ boss of a mob organization no less).

Well, until he got his third shot of whiskey in him and the barstool next to him became occupied.

Already, Dean was annoyed by the close proximity of the other patron. There was so much space in the bar, but this cheeky bastard wanted to sit right next to him for some reason.

The patron orders a simple rum and coke, and when the bartender turns away to make the drink, the guys says, “You could probably use a short trip to hell.”

Dean blinks, and suddenly, the frustration is front and center again in his brain, and the cause of it is sitting right next to him like they didn’t just try to kill each other last night.

“Lemme finish my drink and I’ll give you a one-way ticket,” he growls.

The sniper laughs. “No, I meant the drink. It’s actually called ‘a short trip to hell’. It’s kinda like a cocktail; real sweet, tastes like fruit, mixed with a thing of Redbull and a shot of Jägermeister. It’s wild.”

Dean glares at him. “You don’t even look old enough to drink.”

Rollins cuts his eyes at him. “I’m old enough. Probably not as old as you, but I’m legal.”

“If I didn’t want to get banned from my favorite bar, I’d murder you,” Dean growls, downing his fourth shot.

Rollins laughs at him, and Dean’s starting to think that this guy doesn’t take anything seriously. It’s really annoying.

"So, this is your favorite bar? Huh," he turns in his chair to get a good look at the venue around him, "interesting."

“What are you doing here? Last time I checked, you and I were in the middle of a firefight that has yet to be continued,” growls Dean.

Rollins gives him a sly smile, smooth and cunning, that reminds him of a snake.

“You can drop the professionalism. I’m off the clock, and by the looks of things, so are you,” says Rollins. “No reason why we can’t just be two guys at a bar, drinking after work. Not like I’m trying to be your best friend. Try to be normal for once, Ambrose.”

Dean slams his glass down on the bar.

Frustration level maximum.

“You’re right; we’re not friends,” Dean hisses. “In fact, if you keep fucking talking to me, I’m going to drag you off that stool and beat you to death in the parking lot.”

The way Rollins is talking so casually, like they’re just two regular guys drinking after working at their shitty day jobs in an office. They’re hitmen for god’s sake, they kill people for a living. And they are not friends. Hell, they’re not even acquaintances. Since he’s met him, Dean was wanted nothing more than to kill him.

The one that got away.

Rollins shrugs, not bothered at all by the obvious vitriol being aimed at him. “Fair enough,” he says. And he actually does stop talking.

For all of three minutes.

“So, like, what does a master-class hitman do in his downtime anyway?” he says. “You don’t look like the type to go for a walk in the park, but you know; never judge a book by its cover.”

If it wasn’t for the bartender showing up with Rollins’ drink, Dean would’ve strangled him.

 


	2. we love a bit of trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part ii, a mob boss summit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just thought this chapter wouldn't be as interesting as a standalone, so i tacked it onto this one.

we love a bit of trouble

 

What kind of hitman wore t-shirts and jeans?

Dean startles slightly at the thought. It was intrusive enough; he was supposed to be focusing on Renee next to him, making sure the lot was secure. Outside the car, stationed at the driver’s side and the passenger’s side waiting to receive her, were three of Renee’s bodyguards. Graves, the talented tongue of Renee’s empire, stood guard nearest the driver’s side, while Cesaro and Jax, a silent behemoth of a woman who Dean didn’t really know and probably didn’t like, took the passengers side.

But really, what kind of hitman wore a ratty, old, faded band t-shirt and jeans that looked like they’d been painted on?

It kind of made Dean wonder how old Rollins really was, dressing like a teenager and all. at least he had the sense to wear combat boots; wasn’t like Dean was any better, showing up to put two in the back of people’s heads in a cracked leather jacket and boots, but at least that was more intimidating that an Escape the Fate t-shirt and jeans that looked like he’d raided a teenaged girl’s closet.

He remembered vaguely what Rollins had been wearing at the bar the other day, which had been roughly the same thing.

He was probably college age, which was super disappointing, considering he was supposed to be this enigma of a mafia hitman.

Graves sticks his head in through the half-open window then. “Perimeter’s secure, ma’am,” he says. “You’re clear to exit.”

Dean goes out first, offers Renee his hand to help her out of the car, and leads her inside with the entourage in tow. He’s never been good at negotiations, never really liked them much.

This time, the meetings been set up in a vacant hotel conference room. it’s not a fancy five-star hotel, but a simple, everyday one, the kind that families stay in. at least here, there’s less chance of a fight breaking out –no need to put civilians in harm’s way, nothing that would attract cops.

That had been Graves’ idea, ever the strategic planner.

Helmsley’s already seated at the end of the table when Dean and Renee arrive with the others. Dean’s only ever seen him once or twice and never this close before. He’s a tall man, rippling with a predatory gracefulness that came with being a powerful, successful man. He’s dressed smartly in a dark suit, and even from here, Dean can see the glint of his golden cufflinks, no doubt crafted in the likeness of his family sigil.

Powerful and prideful, indeed.

 Helmsley nods cordially as Dean takes Renee’s coat and she seats herself at the open other end.

“Afternoon, Ms. Young. Good to see you’re doing well,” says Helmsley, ever the gentleman. Renee smiles, underlying a mutual understanding of distaste but needing to maintain cordiality. “You as well, Helmsley. I heard you wanted to discuss the possibility of a gang war.”

Helmsley grins. “Straight to the point, I see.” He nods at his own entourage standing silently behind him. Dean hardly recognizes the three men standing to the left of Helmsley, but there’s no way in hell he doesn’t meet eyes with Rollins standing watch on his right. He’s actually not standing, but leaned back, arms braced against the windowsill. Dean’s annoyed –which seems to be the dominant mood when faced with Rollins’ mere existence- to see that even though Rollins is wearing a black button-down shirt, he’s still got on those damn skinny jeans and a pair of red Chuck Taylors.

Of course they’re high tops, because _why wouldn’t they be_ ; he wouldn’t the hipster brat that he was without them.

Rollins makes eye contact then, ticks his head to one side almost quizzically, and then Helmsley speaks again.

“My hitman apparently touched bases with yours a few nights ago,” says Helmsley. “Scored the hit on your informant target.”

Dean’s blood pressure spikes.

“It’s not a contest. It was in both of our best interests,” says Renee calmly. “He was running back and forth between the both of us; everyone benefitted from his death.”

Helmsley has the gall to smile and nod. “Be that as it may, you misunderstand my intentions. Earlier you said that I wanted to discuss the possibility of a gang war.”

“That’s why you sent your hound, isn’t it?” says Renee. “And why he killed our mutual informant. It was time to delete the source of the rumors, so you took care of it, same as us. You didn’t want him spilling too much before you launched an assault on us.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“I know.”

Helmsley smiles.

Dean feels off.

“If it’s a turf war you’re after, I can assure you, I have no intention of partaking,” continues Renee. “ _La_ _Reine_ has been the dominant force of the Cincinnati underworld for years; I won’t engage in a bloodbath over a territory that wasn’t yours to begin with.”

Dean knows the story; _La Reine de la Rivier_ had been a French-Canadian gang that had found its roots in Cincinnati, Ohio way back in the 1800s and had slowly become the most dominant force in the northern underground despite its advanced age. Renee’s uncle had been the last don to head the operation before Renee herself had taken it over at twenty-three. Rather than drug distribution or prostitution rings _, La Reine_ had begun as a hitman’s organization, the people you went to when you wanted to make someone disappear.

Primarily, it still was an organization dealing in death, though Renee’s uncle had made sure to stick the gang’s hands into the world of illegal hacking and information brokering. There was a whole other branch of the _La Reine_ organization that Dean had never even met, as his job was to make the right people vanish and make sure no one came within viewing distance of the Donna.

It was better that way; Dean wasn’t interested in anything else, really.

Helmsley raises his hands in surrender. “Now, now. I didn’t mean any disrespect. And you’re right in saying that my organization has immigrated to a territory that was primarily _La Reine_ streets. But you see, that’s the beauty of the life we live, Ms. Young: things are always changing.”

Dean glances down in time to see Renee’s jaw tick.

“I understand the sentimental value. Hell, I understand the value from a purely business standpoint,” says Helmsley, seeming to notice that he’s succeeding in pissing Renee off, even if just a little. “But if the Blueblood legacy is going to continue, it’s time we expanded. Manifest destiny, Ms. Young. It’s nothing personal.”

From across the room, Dean hears Rollins laugh softly, sounding more like a soft rush of air than actual laughter. He immediately resolves to kill him once they set foot out of the building. Renee had already made him promise not to start any unnecessary shit during the meeting, or she’d stab him in the hand with a ballpoint pen. He knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t lying.

He feels her shift in her chair next to him.

“To hell with sentiment,” she snaps. “The only reason why I had hoped that we could come to some sort of agreement over the impracticality of a full-on street fight has nothing to do with sentiment. You and I both know that sort of thing is the type to get you killed.”

Helmsley is still smiling, but he looks genuinely curious now. “And what reason was that?”

“For your own continued existence. This organization has not enjoyed this many years of longevity by being meek or half-assing its endeavors,” explains Renee coolly. “If you start this war, I can assure you that every resource _La Reine_ has access to will be trained right on you, Mr. Helmsley.”

She pauses and smiles serenely. “I’ve met your wife in the past. She seems like a wonderful woman. I would hate for her to become a widow.”

The room is deadly silent as Dean escorts the Donna out of the conference room and into the hall. He can’t help but glance up at the man across the table as he goes.

Helmsley looks furious. ‘ _Serves the bastard right_ ’, Dean thought.

Rollins is still leaned back against the windowsill, grinning at the floor, out of his boss’s view. If Dean didn’t know any better, he was laughing at Helmsley’s embarrassment at being upstaged by _La_ _Reine’s_ own Queen of the Cincinnati gang scene.

As they keep a brisk but calculated pace through the halls, Dean leans down and whispers to Renee, “I think you won that fight. Didn’t even know what hit ‘em.”

Renee smiles. “Think so? We’ll count it as a victory.”

“Even better now that we’ve got a war coming up.”

Renee hums in agreement. “Seems so. I’d feel guilty about brushing off the whole family history like that, but I know my uncle would’ve said the same. We’ve never been the type of people to be outdone.”

“Does this mean I get to kill that sniper bitch?”

He holds the door open for her as they leave the lobby, and she pats his shoulder.

“Make it hurt.”

 


End file.
